


Three Women

by saint sentiment (cmm6016)



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: F/M, Silent Hill 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmm6016/pseuds/saint%20sentiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James’ attempt to save Angela, who falls off the edge of reality quite often, treads into forbidden terrain. James/Angela</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magdalene

**One: Magdalene**

 

_They thought death was worth it, but I  
_

_Have a self to recover, a queen  
_

_Is she dead, is she sleeping?  
_

_Where has she been,  
_

_With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?_

_\-- Sylvia Plath, Stings_

James’ hair blew about wistfully and the lobes of his ears reddened in the cool night. The streets were all but desolate, his only company being the wind that whistled through the leaves of the trees. The lawns were all dewy and the mood shone bald and white in the sky, a big head staring passively at him.

He thought the waves must be whipping against the shore like lashes from Toluca Lake. He remembered having studied that black water. He envisioned all the people that disappeared down there, their bony hands still pleading to be dragged back up to air after they’d already drowned. Maybe they all happened to get sucked down into an eye somewhere in the lake. Maybe Toluca had an appetite.

In that way, he was reminded of the Golden Gate Bridge, a wonder he had seen only in photos. The grandeur of ending your life there was only an illusion. The truth was, those who jumped off the Golden Gate would always wish in their last seconds that they hadn’t, because once they hit the water, their bones would break and the force would suck them in like falling into a tornado. They’d finally know how a goldfish felt as it was being flushed down the toilet. What a feeling.

Being alive and now having time to reflect on this, he could now say that the waters of Toluca Lake would not have been generous either. He evaluated his more recent suicide fantasy: disappearing into that blackness with his wife and his car. Somehow, he always imagined that he’d be sitting peacefully in the driver’s seat, watching the water rise above his windows and leak through the edges of the car doors. Mary’s unseeing eyes would open and her unfeeling mouth would break into a soft smile. Being so proud of him. _Now we can be together, James._

That was nothing but a fairy tale.

Angela had said that her own fantasies had been silly like that—overly romanticized and feeling just right like Goldilocks’ porridge. She imagined, as he had, that her death would fit like Cinderella’s glass slipper.

He’d managed to talk her off the steps.

Though the fire was hungry, her love for life extinguished long ago, and her heart black as ink, he still refused to give her back her knife. He told her he wasn’t her mother, or her brother. He told her he wasn’t like her father. And he wasn’t saving anything for himself.

 _“I won’t go through with it if you won’t_ ,” he told her.

Of course it had all been a lie. His life didn’t depend on whether or not she ended hers, but at that point, she was so deluded she would believe anything. It was then, tricked into thinking that she could stand to be responsible for yet another lost life, that she broke down. She sat on the burning staircase, shielding her eyes from the portrait of the bloodied, tarp body that mirrored her own figure, stained at its private part. She told him she didn’t want him to die because of her. She’d already taken a life.

_“You’re forcing me to live!” she screamed._

The street winded into a small alley, where it ended in a brick wall and a small mountain of garbage. He found her there, standing against the wall, her eyes to the floor and her sleek hair fringing over her profile. She wore the same sweater every day and refused to change. Whenever it came time to clean it she would warn James not to look because she’d have to take it off and she’d be in her bra. _Don’t get any funny ideas. Pig._

He never paid attention to the names. That’s all they were. If it made her feel better to degrade him, then it was fine by him. _If it makes you feel better, Angela._

 _“Are you deaf? I told you to go!”_ And the vase he had bought her shattered like puzzle pieces, spilling its guts of water and petals all over the linoleum. Rachel came in, Mary screamed her out. James stood still, and Mary’s voice went so shrill that he could do nothing but leave himself. She would end up hurting her voice.

_If it makes you feel better, Mary._

“What’re you doing here?” she slurred. Still she did not lift her head. _Pig._

He had his hands in his pockets, a measurable distance away from her just in case she freaked. Angela could be the most volatile creature at the worst of times. He just hoped she would come around from this dolorous stupor she was in before the nighttime’s bad elements started to rear their heads.

“Angela, you know it’s dangerous at night. You should come home.”

He had to choose his words carefully. If they did not fit, if they were not the right size, Angela could get very difficult. She was like a sleepwalker. James could never wake her from these moods, or force her to face reality. There _was_ no other reality when she was like this.

“What home?” she sneered.

“Our home.” he said softly.

“I don’t have one.”

“Yes you do. You live with me.”

“I don’t live with you. You trap me there. So you can do things to me.”

“I would never do anything to you, Angela. You know that.”

“My house burned down. I burned it down. It… ate it all up like firewood! That’s what that house was. A big bundle of firewood.” She spat on the ground as if it were the remnants of her hated home. “Good riddance.”

“No, our house is still standing. Waiting for us to come home.”

_Us._

James inwardly flinched. So much for trying to get Angela back to sanctuary.

 _“Us?”_ she spat. Her eyes were on him now. He saw her eyes glint angrily in the way only her eyes could. “Daddy, there’s no _us_. There never was!”

Angela did not see James anymore.

He wrestled within himself, with all the sentences his mind could possibly formulate, and for everything he came up with, one little word within them would be sufficient enough to offend her and insinuate things he didn’t mean, and make the chance of Angela’s return shrink further into obscurity.

He was sure that if he approached her, she would most certainly fly into a rage.

She might even try to kill her father a second time.

How could he keep sounding like a man he never met? James bit his lip. Sweet pleads were off limits. Thomas employed those time and again. No words of reprimand, or rage or spite. That was him too. Thomas Orosoco, the slain beast.

He’d have to use a new approach.

And so, James left her there.

 

 

At around three in the morning he heard that soft rapping. He sprung to his numb feet and walked cautiously toward the door, trying to channel his immense relief and not seem too eager to answer it. Angela hated the sight of concern on someone’s face. Reminded her of her mother, that useless bitch who knew nothing, refused to acknowledge that her own daughter was being raped up the ass by her own husband. _Swine._

Angela’s face was distorted by her tears. Her bangs stuck to her forehead like pressed grass. She wouldn’t look up at him. She didn’t need his stupid sympathy.

James stepped off to the side and let her through. Standing out from the majority of the female crowd, most of whom clamored to be held in times of distress, Angela didn’t want to be touched. She never wanted to feel the fingers of a man on her skin again.

Making sure to keep a safe distance, James approached her with an old Bugs Bunny mug of hot cocoa. He wondered for a second if she’d actually accuse him of spiking it or something.

But no accusation came. She grasped the cup in fingers whitened by the cold, and trembled slightly as the heat transferred to her arms. She blew ragged breaths on the surface. The milk chocolate rippled slightly and the little marshmallows bobbed around like buoys at sea.

James wanted to get her a blanket, but he didn’t know how she would feel about being wrapped around a cloth that smelled entirely like him. A pity that he needed to consider things like these.

Ah, to hell with it. She was cold.

“I’m gonna get you a blanket.” James returned with one of his older comforters, a relic that had survived the homicidal washing machine, the spills of countless Pepsis and more recently the ketchup of his late night microwave hotdogs.

Angela didn’t acknowledge him—not that he’d ever expected a response.

He unfolded it and draped it around her shoulders, letting it fall over the top of the couch. She looked like a superhero leaning over a cup of hot chocolate after a particularly tough day on the job. He was almost tempted to laugh, but he managed to remind himself who he was dealing with.

“Thank you,” she muttered.

 _Am I James now?_ He wanted to inquire. _Or am I just your father on his better days?_

Discovering that Angela’s family members were living vicariously through him was a daily occurrence. She flitted between this world and that, and James would only find out exactly who he was when he said the wrong words.

Still, he was making progress. She wasn’t spending as much time behind the door of her childhood bedroom anymore, her arms wound tightly around her closed legs and dreading the moment when Daddy would pry them open.

She was the 21-year-old Angela at breakfast, the Angela that shot back haughtiness when he simply asked her if she liked her eggs scrambled or over-easy. But then she was the 7-year-old Angela when she broke the plates and toppled over the grandfather clock Frank had bequeathed him before he died. The 7-year-old spouted his deeds back at him for him to face fully—that his mouth tasted like cigarettes and his hairy chest disagreed with her skin. She described them like murders.

These accusations would churn great repulsion in him. That any human capable of morality and reason could subject a child to these sordid behaviors, things he’d only ever seen in his hidden adult film collection and short stack of magazines, was unthinkable. He thought—what if something like that had happened to Laura? He trembled and banished it from his mind.

He couldn’t blind himself to what he’d accomplished the minute she went into one of her fits. He _had_ made progress.

“Angela.. Do you mind if I sit here?” James pointed to his own couch, of which he most certainly had the right to sit on. But in any situation, Angela’s feelings came first.

“Don’t be such an idiot,” she scowled, her even mood ruined by James’ stupid question. But inwardly she was a little moved by his politeness, how considerately he sought after her permission.

James sat down. He didn’t turn on the TV, which Angela quietly appreciated. Instead he stared into any object that would trigger an occupying string of thoughts and observations.

Angela stared too, nowhere in particular, just allowing the warmness to envelop her and bring her back down from the darkness that had her head swimming in circles like a fish in a bowl. She didn’t mean to treat James this way all the time. But she couldn’t just turn these episodes off. They came and went when they wanted to regardless of how she felt about them. It was only a matter of consequence that James had to suffer in turn.

It was the burden he had to bear in return for saving her life.

James could deal; he had carried heavier burdens. Angela would come around.

At least that was what he was telling himself at the moment.

Angela finally turned to look at him, and the sight caught him a little off guard. Her jaw slacked, her hair matted and everywhere, even in her eyes. She didn’t seem to care. Her eyes were most definitely dead.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

James struggled for a response. What was wrong with _him_? How Angela could ask this question without first taking into consideration her own state was beyond him.

Moments passed, until James finally settled on leaving the question unanswered. If she meant that she still didn’t understand why he was helping her, he didn’t much feel like justifying it right now. He was weary from all the dread and worry that she put him through after she decided to disappear. He sighed and yawned into his hand.

“Do you want me to turn the TV on for you? I’m going to bed.. If that’s okay.”

“No.” Angela said, the little brat. “I want you to sit here and talk to me.”

“It’s very late.”

“You said you’d be here for me.”

“I am here, Angela. I’m always here.”

She didn’t appear convinced.

As of late, Angela appeared to trust James to the point of even sleeping in the same bed with him. Although, there was a large space in between them. He had at least managed to conquer her fear of proximity to a man while she slept. Of course, after an episode like this, it would be more prudent to sleep in separate spaces tonight.

Maybe he would have to stay awake for the night. At least until she grew sleepy, which by then he would gladly give her the bed and he’d take the couch. It was how it had to be the first few weeks after he brought her home. Reverting back to the old routine didn’t bother James.

Angela stood and placed the mug down on the table and wrapped the covers around her. Sighing, James walked to his bedroom and snatched all of the clothes sprawled on the bed, along with the TV remote that he’d lost while pacing the house, fighting ominous thoughts, anxiously awaiting her return.

The blanket cascaded to the ground like a curtain.

Angela’s fingers snaked their way up his chest, making ripples in his shirt and pulling it up just to where his belly button would be exposed. He gasped. He hadn’t even heard Angela approach him from behind.

She ran her fingers back down again. One rested on his stomach while the finger of the other hand slipped into the hem of his jeans, giving a slight, subversive tug.

“What are you doing?” he sounded breathless, after he’d just come back in from a run around the block. His voice felt small and inconsequential. He wasn’t even sure if Angela heard him.

He whipped around and grabbed her forearms to get her to stop. She brought her dry lips to his and pressed her breasts onto his body. He hated it; he hated the feeling of her. She was soft and, to his own disgust, not entirely unwanted. This mere fact scared him so much that he pulled away and strutted past her, his arm to his lips and his eyes wide. He stopped himself before he could leave.

“Why are you doing this? You call me a pig, and then you..”

The sounds of cars driving past hummed into the windows, and a particular chill blew through. Or maybe it was only him.

“I didn’t call you a pig,” she admitted. “That was him.. Him I called a pig.”

He spun around. “I thought you were terrified of this. This is your worst fear.”

Angela had to be a different person now. He just knew it. She had her times when she dissociated into her child self, and she was all fear and trembling. Then she had the other one—what he’d cautiously call the “everyday” Angela. She was pessimistic, biting, and cold. But who was this one? Moreover, was she simply a defense mechanism that came into play whenever the other states did not accomplish her needs? Was this Angela the manifestation of her Id, the part of her that might actually have liked those caresses, that squeezing and the occasional slap of her behind?

Lust wasn’t a hard thing to communicate. It was clearly there. Staring back at him like some marble-faced succubus.

She approached with no trepidation, cupping his cheek in her hand. He had the sudden image of Maria reaching through the bars in much the same way. Those eyes had glinted like the Cheshire Cat. The prison darkened and her fingers slipped away into the black forever. She was dead again.

When Angela kissed him a second time, he did not pull away. He simply allowed it. While Angela closed her eyes, James kept his open, his gaze fixed on her eyelashes, how sleek they looked up close, thick as elephant grass and dark as the hairs of a fruit fly under a microscope. Her face was sallow. She was both beautiful and ugly, if that were possible. She was a marriage of opposites. In another universe, she would be a vixen. She’d show her legs and sport a sharp bob to bring the attention to her fiery copper eyes. She wouldn’t be afraid of anyone. Much less a man.

That unpredictable thing, the coils of lust, unfurled in him. As he returned her kiss he slowly began to forget who he was, who she was. The world had ceased to turn and all became still. All that moved was them, hands over skin, hair and cloth. He hardly knew what he was doing, but then again, neither did Angela.

He fell back on the bed. She climbed on top of him, effectively pinning him down. She threw her head back and her hair reacted as if wind-blown. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

She’d known exactly how he liked it. Forceful and unapologetic, she bit and raked and held on for dear life. Exactly who she was projecting this fraught lovemaking on he could only guess at, which gave him a shudder, but nevertheless, what Angela wanted, she got.

_If it makes you feel better._

_Abuse me._

The minutes became ambiguous. The light took its sweet, sweet time, inching out as a caterpillar trekking across a branch. It was easy to con himself into believing this was a dream, and he’d desperately hoped it was. Angela couldn’t act this way. She just couldn’t.

This was something masked, something that had found its way to the surface against all reason and common decency. But how could he judge? He had lost himself in his own insanity once. Done things he never thought he’d do. It was a scary and exhilarating place to be.

Maybe he’d made more progress than what he hoped for.

 _Pig_ seared through his thoughts, what little of them he was entertaining, like acid. It echoed. He could make no reply.

 

 

The sky was open and calm, the color of a bruise. The trees were black figures, the windows of the houses like vacant eyes, and their residents sleeping mice. Naked, yet warm under the coverlet, Angela stared into the distance. She had her back to James. Only her smooth shoulders and the small of her back were visible. She was hollow. She loved that uncomplaining absence in herself. A wicked peace had crawled up her limbs and kept her normally nervous frame from squirming. She knew the child self would be appalled, and perhaps the apparition of Thomas would break into an ashen smile. His teeth would be white—pure ivory after the fire. She did not hate him so much when she thought of him that way.

A dead man can’t laugh.

James was a man who lit up after the deed, but with his discarded pants pocket devoid of cigarettes at the moment, he turned to Angela to run his fingers through her hair. Would she still be as receptive?

She suddenly bristled and swatted his hand away like an insect. Wounded, James’ hand retracted back to his chest. He wanted to say something, yet he didn’t.

He didn’t know who he was at that particular moment.

And come to think of it, it’d probably be better if he kept the questions to himself.


	2. Electra

**Two: Electra**

_I am terrified by this dark thing_

_That sleeps in me;_

_All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity._

_\-- Sylvia Plath, Elm_

Before the coming of Thanksgiving, the snow had already sheeted the streets in white. Angela always loved looking out the window and seeing the loveliness of winter. Everything so pure. Snow absorbed sound. Muted the screams. Took the pain away from the images of her flailing limbs as Thomas stood over her, his plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned and the removal of his stocking cap making his head look repulsively flat and egg-shaped. His build was burly, his hairy skin rough and abrasive, and his eyes glazed over, completely at peace with the act of forcing himself on his daughter. Well, surprisingly, she was at peace with this too. The winter had come to remind her that death was absolute, and that he, the undeserving animal, would not see the spring.

Not many would look on death so romantically. But if it were serene, if it were welcoming like those arms that had held her moments ago, what was the crime? Those steps, or whatever they lead to, were supposed to set her free. But James hadn’t looked on those steps as freedom.

James hadn’t given her a reason to live. That would be a little too dubious to acknowledge, though it was the entire point of him doing it in the first place.

The sheets felt like grass now. He’d laid in them too long. He thought it would be better to get out of bed and retain the façade of normality. Being stationary only let his guilt swell.

He noticed that she was standing by the opened venetian blinds, pensive and completely naked. His shock was hard to suppress. He thought of the nosy neighbors, the passersby who studied the houses of the neighborhood. Did she care?

Instead of reprimanding her, which wouldn’t benefit her fragile psyche, he asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

Angela didn’t answer. Sometimes she did this out of spite, other times it was because she was swept up in a dizzying revelation of some sort. James had already conditioned himself not to be offended by it.

_Pig_ still carried a resounding sting, as much as he hated to face it.

 

 

When Thanksgiving came, he got no visits in the name of friendship, family or festivity. With his father now dead, his mother gone since he was 12, and having no siblings and little more than a disinterested cousin here and there, James expected no less.

Being in much the same situation and antisocial to boot, Angela wasn’t enamored with the idea of eating a generous dinner with a man she had met only a month and a half ago.

James wouldn’t be dissuaded. Early that morning, he went to the local grocery store and bought a 3 pound ham and a baked chicken, a box of stuffing, and some marshmallows to put atop the pot of yams he planned to make. The ham was in the oven, and it wouldn’t be done for another 30 minutes. This gave James time to prepare the lesser things. He opened the cans of asparagus, carrots, corn, peas and brussel sprouts (Mary’s brother had jokingly called them ‘alien heads’) and readied the dinnerware.

Angela watched with a varying degree of interest, turning her head back to see what he was doing whenever the show she was watching became boring. It occurred to her that he might be so involved in the cooking because he needed a distraction from her. He wasn’t something she wanted to ponder on either. While some murky portion of her consciousness had remembered their terrible fornication, she wasn’t entirely there while it was happening. It was harder for James, who lacked a substitute to shield him from his deeds, than it was for her. The others were her numbing salves, taking the evil into them so that it would be easier for the everyday Angela.

He only had his everyday James. That was it.

He took the ham out of the oven and began to cut it. The smell of pineapple and brown sugar wafted into the air and reached her nose. Angela studied the muscles of his back, how they contracted and relaxed as he worked. She remembered how her nails felt in his skin—how tough, yet pliable it was. She remembered how her eyes slit toward the ceiling as he pressed his lips on her jugular vein, his little nips and licks.

And while these same memories probably had him burning in shame, they’d be all she cared to consider come nightfall.

Her fork scraped across her plate. James had seconds and thirds to stuff his mouth and keep him from talking.

She threw around the idea of seducing him again. It was a funny thing to consider. She felt powerful, deviant.

_Daddy would be so mad._

But was that the only reason? Because Daddy would rue the day when another man got to taste her, to feel her? Was she really that sick inside that she’d use James to get even more revenge on a dead man—a man who had already died by her own hand?

No, no. It couldn’t be that simple. So entirely… _petty_.

“Not very hungry, huh?” James remarked.

It wasn’t a question so much as a comment. Indeed, Angela hadn’t eaten much. She never really liked food.

James had gotten full a long time ago, but thinking that they ought to have a nice selection, he made a healthy portion of food. If only he had more friends, so much wouldn’t have to be wasted. He guessed he’d just put the leftovers in the fridge. That would hold them over for the next few days.

“I wasn’t terribly hungry. I don’t even remember the last time I had this big of a meal anyway.”

James was well aware. One of Thomas’ favorite punishments had been the deprivation of food, and being always in a state of want, Angela had learned to skirt her needs until he decided she had suffered enough. This only happened on more merciful days. On some darker occasions, a meal only followed the shedding of clothes.

Still shackled by the old ways, Angela couldn’t bring the fork to her mouth too many times. This leaked into other things. She refused to shop for new clothes because her sweater was a part of her now—as were her corduroy pants and beat-up Swiss sneakers. Thomas didn’t welcome change. Not in clothes, personality or preference. It was a form of defiance.

His heart sank. Thomas was still very, very much alive. Sometimes he feared that neither the knife she had repeatedly gored him with, nor the fire that had scorched his bones would ever truly efface him. The same went for the others. Her mother and brother were little more than ash. Yet they still talked. They still laughed and taunted.

It was the price she had to bear for taking their lives.

He’d once read of a Japanese folktale where a murdering thief carted the corpse of a woman on his back, pondering on where to bury her. As he walked, she gradually became heavier and heavier. When he finally noticed how heavy she was, she had morphed into a boulder and crushed him.

“Do you regret it?” Angela asked.

James looked up at her from his plate. His fork was suspended above his third serving of potato salad, looking as hesitant and pensive as he was.

“Do I regret… what?”

“Killing her.”

He reddened, and it seemed that his food would come back up. He stood from the table and stacked Angela’s neglected plate on top of his, taking the dishes to the sink. The way the silverware clanged when he set it down on the marble tabletop made her flinch. He clutched the edge of the tabletop and didn’t turn around.

“Why the hell would you ask me something like that?” He was desperate, disparaging. “What’s wrong with you?”

Angela sighed. When her hand clamped his shoulder, he tensed and refused to look back at her. Was he suspecting that this would end up like last night?

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I say some of the things I do.”

“You… you know that I’m a murderer. If it bothers you… then you can go.” His fingers folded into his palms.

“I’ve killed, too.” Angela pressed her forehead on his back, closing her eyes. “I can’t crucify you for that. Even though I want to.”

He turned around.

“I wanted to find something wrong with you. A reason to run away. That’s why… I did what I did.”

He let out the raspy breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“But I couldn’t. I liked it… The way you held me.” Her eyes dimmed and became distant. _You were loving. You were consoling._

“So you don’t hate me?” He reached into her hair and rubbed his thumb along her cheek. She didn’t pull away.

_So I’m not a pig?_

“No.”

They held each other tentatively, both being unused to affection. Her from having none for the better part of her life, and him from having no wife to hold him for the last three years.

Neither of them had any knowledge of where this would lead to. They only knew that they both understood each other in a way no one else did. Somehow, that was sufficient.

He didn’t have a clue how something like this could even work out. He never put much stock in any serious relationships after Mary, so it was hard to envision a future with anyone.

By nighttime, the street poles all beamed, lighting the snow and casting orange shadows. Snow wafted down somberly, barely noticeable through the slits of a venetian blind. It piled on through invisible means, keeping Angela at the window for minutes at a time. A John Candy movie droned on behind her.

James turned his attention on his empty limbs, only now beginning to remember the withdrawal of not holding anyone. How unproductive it felt.

He feared that someday, she would disappear. And he’d have no one to blame but himself.

Angela, usually unaware of him, studied his refection in the window. She feared the same.


	3. Persephone

**Three: Persephone**

_What would the dark do_

_Without fevers to eat?_

_What would light_

_Do without eyes to knife?_

_What would he_

_Do, do, do without me?_

\- Sylvia Plath, _The Jailor_  


Shadows zipped through the blinds when cars drove past.

James’ head swam with disjointed musings. All the things he had to do around the house when morning came. All the bills that had to be paid, calls to be made. To his disgruntlement, his mind kept interrupting itself with Maria’s legs, sliding up over themselves. She dipped her arm between, teasing him with the prospect of delving into them. He’d be perfectly content to melt into the warmth of her and never reemerge. To have worry dissolve again into an alien thing.

But worry was only alien to the dead.

He often had dreams of waking up and finding that she wasn’t there anymore. That once again, he’d have to sleep with his back against that terrible absence. Grief was a lot like the pangs of hunger, the pain of an empty stomach. But grief didn’t leave like hunger. It was never really sated.

He didn’t want to feel that again.

When he reached around him, his hands thankfully landed on Maria’s hip. He could feel the velvet, leopard print skirt she wore. It filled him with a relief so immense it allowed his eyelids to grow heavy again. All was well in the world.

Until he heard her. “James.”

This voice. Not Maria.

He turned over. He was greeted by a thick shock of brown hair, ruffled from what the 7-year-old Angela called ‘the grown-up game’. What he assumed was the sheerness of leopard print was actually her corduroy pants. Her eyes glinted in the light like dark obsidian. It gave her a strange other life, as if there were a gremlin bristling somewhere in the pit of her soul.

He felt a sinking sensation. He remembered Maria suspended above him in that rack. The Red Pyramids on either side of her, spears aching to penetrate.

Maria didn’t come back after that. Instead it was Angela who sat in the driver’s seat as Silent Hill receded in his rear view mirror.

 

 

The chain was drawn over the door at night. The windows closed. The house secure. She tried not to think too deeply on it, but she pondered those doors. The sound of a lock clicking into place was a very familiar one. A haunting sound. It dropped into her stomach like a stone.

A locked door meant that Daddy had locked everyone out and was free to do as he pleased. Pain would soon follow. Bones would feel like they were breaking, crushed into immobility by a bigger body. He’d break in when she was dry.

James would never do something like that. At least, this was what she tried so hard to convince herself. James knew she liked to leave at night. Rather than finding her in a dank alley or on a bridge, leering over into the water and thinking about it, it was better just to trap her here.

If it would keep her safe, he’d trap her here forever.

Angela closed her eyes at the rotating ceiling fan. She’d seen many of these in Silent Hill. Whole areas fenced off behind rusted metal grating. The blood stained mesh would waft a terrible smell into the air. The scent of smoke, cooking skin, burnt hair. Distant screams.

She wished it would all go away.

_Your daddy loves you._

Angela startled awake in a sweat. The covers were wrapped like vines around her body and limbs. She wriggled out of them and tossed them off. The wool of her sweater chafed her sweating skin, and she discarded that too, leaving only her bra. Her breasts were sleek, dewed in perspiration, and suddenly even the bra felt too tight. She unhooked it in the back and let it droop around her shoulders. She kicked off her pants in and flung herself back on the couch.

Daddy would like this, she realized. Seeing her like this.

_Look how my baby girl has grown…_

Angela covered her face with her hands and raked her fingers down her cheeks. Her head was throbbing. The ceiling fan twirled, but the air never reached her. The heat was always there, lighting her on fire and fevering her dreams.

_For me,_ _it’s_ always _like this._

And suddenly, like a great cave-in, the world became too much to handle. A swell grew in her chest, big, lumbering, and loathsome. Her throat grew tighter. Her hair felt like sharp, parched grass around her head, her skin a cold blanket over her bones. Her body was disgusting, right from her head down to her toes.

The air never reached her. The heat of hell nipped at her feet. She felt empty and burned out, like a seared husk.

Daddy towered over her, invisible, calling her a pretty girl.

 

 

James hated mornings. He was too lazy to make breakfast, too lazy to turn on the TV. Though he was wide awake, he never could find it in him to move for the first few hours of the day. So he consigned to staring at the ceiling for a time. When he tired of that, there left him no other choice but to get up. Painfully he rose, and swung his feet over the bed. So much of the day was already gone. It was going on 1 in the afternoon. He’d gotten far too much sleep than he meant to.

It was too quiet at this hour. The TV in the living room should have been on and Angela should have been fully dressed, starting at it as if it were the most boring thing in the world but shackled to it nonetheless. This he didn’t see.

Angela lay on the couch, her back facing him. The strips of her detached bra hung limply underneath her arms. A portion of her legs were covered by the blanket, but her lower back and her butt were bare, showing her white panties and pale legs. James suppressed the thought of her having done something a little too private for question, and instead concerned himself with why she was inert at this time of day. Angela always rose before him.

“Angela,” he attempted, “Are you really hot? Do you think you… might be running a fever?”

Angela didn’t respond. Her spine bent just a tad, likely an act of repositioning.

James considered Angela might freak out if he touched her naked back, so he stood right where he was. He ran his fingers through his hair and over the back of his head. She was in one of her moods.

Had she suffered a bad dream?

He wasn’t sure if this was an issue he should even be engaging. Angela was unhinged. She often lost her temper or suffered bursts of anxiety at an innocent or otherwise well-meaning provocation. Of course, he couldn’t call out the thorn in her eye before seeing his own. He ended the life of his wife after a long string of maddening pain and spiraling bouts of alcohol-tinged depression. He dealt with despair and pain for the last three years up until this point, and not much had improved since then.

But Angela, the poor soul, was born into hell.

She slowly turned her head. Her faraway eyes appeared cloudy and heavy with exhaustion.

“Are you okay…?” James tentatively reached out to her.

Angela jerked up and her body collided into the cushions, swallowing her body shape. Her arms flew up to cover her face. Instinctual, he guessed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he held his hands up and stepped back. “It’s all right. I didn’t mean to scare you. You looked really out of it, so I…”

The fan of her hair slid over her features as she calmed. Her breathing slowed, her muscles relaxed. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t—” she stopped.

She looked up. “What was I doing?”

“You were asleep, I think.” James aimed at unassuming, neutral responses. “Maybe you had a bad dream.”

“Yeah…” she grasped her forehead and sank back down into a defeated sitting position.

While Angela might not have been aware of how scantily clad she was, or perhaps didn’t care, James did. But it wouldn’t be conducive to the situation to make her feel ashamed in any way. Shame could elevate to trepidation and fear, which he certainly didn’t want. It’d probably be in her best interests to be accommodating.

“I can bring another fan in here if it’s too hot, or open some of the windows—” Nix that, James thought. She could get the idea to fling herself out of one. “—Nevermind. I’ll bring the fan in for now and bring the AC up from the basement sometime this week. You want a drink?”

Angela nodded. James wasn’t sure exactly what she was nodding to. She could be agreeing about the fan but not the drink. At any rate, he guessed after a bad dream, she could be hot and have a dry throat. James went to the kitchen and set a cold glass of ice tea down on the table with a straw bent toward her. She leaned over, took a timid sip and sat back, closing her eyes. “No need… to be so nice. I know it isn’t real.”

James sat down next to her, conscious to put a little distance between them for her comfort. “What do you mean it’s not real?”

A smile dug into her cheek. “You think I’m just a nut. You’re trying not to upset me. You’re… keeping me here, just like Daddy did. Nice and pretty and docile.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

Angela got up and entered the kitchen. James sat where he was. His insides began to turn. He clasped his hands together and hunched over in thought.

Just then she returned, and James turned toward her.

Her wrist was twisting about, a knife clutched in her hand. Angela had a sly look that poked thorough her disheveled hair. Her other arm hung limply at her side and her legs were off balance. James’ heart nearly stopped.

“Angela!”

“Hey, Mister… I wanna show you something.” Angela threw her head back and put the knife to her throat.

James sprung up and yanked the knife away from her and wrestled her to the ground. She squirmed and screamed and arched up beneath him. James was startled at her strength. She kneed him and used her free arm to claw at his hair, his face, his neck, anywhere it’d hurt.

“Angela! Listen to me!”

James squeezed her wrist tighter and pinned her legs down. His throat was getting tighter and before he could even hold it back, a sob heaved out of him. “Stop.”

Angela stilled, her fingers loosened. The knife slid through, and hit the ground with an empty metallic clink. Her legs slacked.

James shoved the knife as far away as he could. He slowly released his hold on Angela’s limbs and sat back, breathing hard. His face was streaked, and his eyes were beginning to puff up.

Angela’s inert stare pulled at his heart. He threaded his fingers lightly through her sweat stricken hair and gently brushed the fringe from her face. “Angela… I’m sorry.”

“Admit it, then,” she breathed. “Admit it.”

“I am keeping you here.”

“Why? Why won’t you let me go?”

“Because I—”

_Because I—_

His tongue twisted and the words were lost somewhere in the air. Only the room knew.

Because I love you, the curtains would say, if they could.

 

 

When May came, he rains swept across the sky. They walked after it ceased but a slight drizzle could still be felt on the skin. Puddles of marble water reflected in the light. Mud caked the grass hedges that lined the sidewalk. The sun died in the horizon. The clouds hovered over, filled with so much tranquility and despair.

James kept the doors open after that night. He realized her real madness. The locked door, the enclosure, those were her devils.

If she left, he couldn’t stop her.

For some time after that, she did. He wouldn’t hear from her for days at a time. He’d sit on the couch and watch his cell phone on the table, rub over his knuckles, pace the room. Wanting to scream. Or call the police. Or just burst out of the house and run anywhere, to any place she could possibly be, and drag her back no matter how she’d scream and curse him for it. And just in the darkest hour, when he would think her dead, mulling over his negligence and all he should have done, the knob would finally turn from the other side.

Eventually she stopped. She forsook the distance she forced between them. She came back to his bed, and curled up against him. He’d nuzzle his nose in her hair and breathe her in, and turn off the lamp by the bedside table. She’d be there in the morning, unlike the apparition of Maria, who would always evaporate sometime in the night. In her stead was a living, breathing, broken Angela, as real as his hand and the anguish she carried ever more palpable than that sometimes. But he could deal.

Darkness had a home in his head, settling on his mind most often at night, but one day, miraculously, he realized that despite the stranglehold of memories and distant agonies, the sins and the regret, the sun still rose.

James doubted he knew much of anything, if his often nebulous existence was anything to go by. But this, this stillness and this peace, Angela shrouded in the blankets by his side, the ceiling fan turning and the sky brightening and the birds taking perch on the wires outside and the cars driving by…

He could do without the ideal. This was all the real he needed.


End file.
